


Into the Flood Again

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-01
Updated: 2009-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: The tension that's been simmering between them for months has eased just enough that Dean can pretend that the last three weeks--hell, the last two years--haven't happened.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Into the Flood Again

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Alice in Chains. Thanks to Laura for the quick beta.

"Dean!" Sam bursts through the doorway to Dean's office, still wearing his stupid yellow polo shirt and khakis, and Dean figures he can't really mock. He's wearing suspenders, for fuck's sake, though the suit he's got on is a lot nicer than anything he's ever owned. He wonders how much he could get for it at a thrift store.

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam gives him a bright grin, which fades almost immediately. "You okay, man?"

Dean rubs a hand across his forehead and sinks back down into the surprisingly comfortable office chair. Dean Smith might have been a corporate douchebag, but he'd clearly cared about lumbar support.

"I need a beer and a burger. And to find out where my car is. Where is my car, Sam?" His voice rises, edged with fear he can't quite hide, and he stands abruptly, sending the chair wheeling back into the credenza behind his desk. "If those fuckers laid a finger on her..." He lets the threat trail off ominously, contemplating his revenge.

"The car is fine, Dean. It's down in the garage."

"Oh, thank God." It's habit, a meaningless expression, in the sense that he really does not feel any sort of gratitude towards God at this moment, except for the fact that his car is nearby and, he hopes, untouched by angelic interference. "Let's go then."

He leaves his four hundred dollar briefcase next to the desk and shoulders past Sam, out into the hallway.

"Dean?" It's his secretary. He has a fucking _secretary_ , or Dean Smith does, anyway--a twenty-three-year-old girl with an overbite and a degree in marketing from Miami of Ohio. Dean Smith would have called her his assistant, but aside from these three weeks, Dean Winchester has never worked in an office (has never _wanted_ to work in an office) and he's still too freaked out (and trying not to show it) by what happened to care about things like titles.

"Take care, Maggie."

She blinks at him slowly from behind the square, black, plastic frames that make her look like a female Buddy Holly. "What?"

"I quit. I'm leaving." He presses the button on the elevator. "On the upside, you'll never have to hear me talk about my _golf game_ ," he practically gags on the words, can hear Sam's snort of surprise or mockery (or both) behind him, "again. And in five years, this job will probably be yours. On the downside, you'll never have a boss as awesome as me again."

The elevator dings and the doors slide open before Maggie can say anything. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is still hanging open unattractively when the doors slide shut.

"Your golf game?" Sam repeats, snickering. "I thought you weren't a corporate douchebag at heart, but maybe I was wrong."

"Apparently, I have a six handicap." He glances up at Sam, trying to gauge his reaction to this latest mindfuck. "Is that good?"

Sam's lips twitch and his eyebrows rise in surprise. "Do you care?"

The elevator dings again, letting them out in the parking garage. "No." Dean laughs, more relief than humor, and then he clamps down, cuts it off, feeling the edges of hysteria in it.

The car is parked in that fucker Adler's--no, Zachariah's spot, right next to Dean Smith's.

"A Prius, Dean? That's so...environmentally conscious of you."

Dean flips him off and focuses on the car-- _his_ car. He runs a hand over the roof and along the door. "You okay, baby?" He doesn't want to have to jimmy the lock, but he will if he has to. He fumbles around in his pockets, and the key is on his key ring like it's been there all along.

The car smells like rancid grease and gun oil and salt and dirt. Like him and Sam and three weeks of dirty laundry left to sit in a hot, locked car. He takes a deep breath and wishes he hadn't. He rolls the window down and leans over to unlock the door for Sam, who wrinkles his nose when he gets a whiff.

"We need to do laundry," Sam says, settling into the passenger seat.

Dean rolls his eyes. No shit, Sherlock. "Food first."

"Don't you want to finish your cleanse?"

He can hear the laughter in Sam's voice and it warms him, despite everything. "Shut up." He turns the key in the ignition and lets the familiar rumble of the engine wash over him. He pushes Dirt into the tapedeck and doesn't miss NPR much at all. He looks over at Sam. "Where to?"

Sam shrugs. "Away from here."

Dean nods. He wants to eat, but he also wants to put as much distance between them and Sandover Bridge and Iron as possible. He pulls out of the garage to the low growl of Layne Staley's voice, and heads east.

At the first stoplight, he sheds his tie, tossing it into the backseat. The jacket is next--it fits perfectly, well enough that he wonders if the suit was custom-made for him (and he can't even think about how much that would cost)--but it feels wrong, so he shimmies out of it while cruising down I-75, right hand on the wheel as he slips his left arm out, and then the reverse. It, too, gets tossed into the backseat.

By the time they roll to a stop in the Pettaway Diner parking lot two hours later, he's shrugged off the suspenders and rolled up his sleeves. He thinks about changing his pants in the restroom, but everything they own smells like it rolled around in an open grave for a while, so he doesn't bother. Even wearing the fancy pants and shiny shoes, he still feels more like himself than he has in a long time.

Sam just shucks the yellow polo and keeps his white t-shirt on with his khakis. He still looks like a dork, but at least he doesn't have Sandover's name plastered across his chest anymore.

A waitress with stoplight red hair and a pierced lip leads them to a booth. "How are you boys today?" She grins and waves laminated cards at them. "Need a few minutes with the menu?"

"No need." Dean shakes his head. He knows what he wants. "Bacon cheeseburger deluxe, medium rare, extra onions, extra pickles and some mayonnaise on the side. Oh, and a side of onion rings." His stomach rumbles excitedly and he hopes it forgives him for the last three days of feeding it lemon water and cayenne pepper. _Cayenne pepper._ What the _fuck_? "And some coffee, please."

"I'll have the same," Sam says, amused look on his face. "Without the extra onions. And we'll share the onion rings."

"We will not."

Sam ignores him. "And an iced tea instead of coffee."

"It's unsweetened."

"Yeah, that's fine." She goes to put their order in and Sam says, "I'm also going to eat your fries."

"You are not."

"I really think I am." Sam leans back and grins, the smug bastard.

"I'd like to see you try."

This is familiar, normal, _right_. The tension that's been simmering between them for months has eased just enough that Dean can make believe that the last three weeks--hell, the last two years--haven't happened, that he and Sam are on the road between jobs, and everything is the way it always used to be.

He can't let himself really believe it, though, can't think things are going to be okay. They haven't been okay for a long time--maybe not since Cold Oak--and they're only going to get worse before they get better. If they get better. And he can't let himself forget that, just because Sam is laughing and it feels like they're a team again--like they're _brothers_ again--for the first time in forever.

For a little while, though, for as long as Sam lets him, he can pretend.

end


End file.
